


Several Other Conversations:

by destielpasta



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Eliot waugh thinking he doesn't deserve love, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Episode: s04e05 Escape From the Happy Place, Kissing, M/M, Miscommunication, Missing Scene, Multiple missing scenes, until he does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 18:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18145919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta
Summary: Quentin and Eliot during the important moments, and the moments in between.Or,A kiss, a fight, a goodbye, and a hello





	Several Other Conversations:

**Author's Note:**

> Hellllooooo Magicians fandom! I know I have 1000 WIPs going for other fandoms but I'm sorry these two sad men are just begging to be written about. These are some little missing scenes that take place after "A Life in the Day," before and after the s3 finale, and one that is my prediction for the future. Enjoy!

Eliot backed Quentin into the wall, holding him tight by the waist and licking into his mouth for effect. He had a lot of tricks up his sleeve, and who better to use them on than Quentin? His best friend? Former life partner? Even more important: the closer they got the more Quentin let out those little sounds from deep in his chest. Eliot would split an atom just to hear them again.

Their movements were clear cut, like falling through space. No resistance, nothing to slow them down.

It was different in the Fillory of the past.

That Fillory was heady, the air thick with pollen and magic. Intoxicating. It was fifty years of sweat and not enough baths and the way a body feels after a hard day’s work. Of a good night’s sleep and meals that coated your stomach. For so long Eliot had lived on tequila and pretzel rods that a stew cooked over an open flame made him vomit for two hours the first time Quentin had snared some kind of non-talking rabbit (they hoped) and cut it up in a cast iron pot.

It was all too much, and not enough. A dream, really.

Back in the real world, things were in much sharper focus.

It was exactly three days after the lifetime they had spent together, and Eliot could still taste the peaches on Quentin’s tongue. Could still taste his words too—

_Me and you. Us— we work. We know it because we lived it—_

Yes, yes, proof of concept. The words echoed in his mind but who had the time to pay attention to _that_ when Quentin was kissing him so thoroughly in some abandoned bedroom in the Whitespire of the present. Of course he liked kissing Quentin, who wouldn’t? That didn’t mean that they were some kind of magical mosaic soulmates or whatever the kids were calling it these days.

“Eliot— We should–”

 _No no no, none of that._ Eliot pressed in harder, taking Quentin’s face between his hands and pushing his fingers through his hair, and maybe that was wrong, but no one ever said he was the pinnacle of human virtue. He tipped Quentin’s head back, pressed the pads of his fingers against the nape of his neck and opened their mouths.

Quentin melted, the desire for a pause successfully dissolved.

A victory. The less Quentin could talk, the less chance there was of him saying something that would make Eliot back away like a coward in a King’s clothes. This was simple, clean cut. Quentin looked so cute in the Whitespire guard outfit and it was so nice to have him in the castle again and Eliot had missed him–  

Of course he should kiss him. It was what friends do.

Quentin’s hands wandered: pressing into Eliot’s shoulder blades, down to the dip at the small of his back, finally over his ass and squeezing just enough to bring their hips together. Eliot gasped and leaned to the side to grab for Quentin’s leg, hooking it around his hip and pressing him into the wall, nearly toppling them over.

Quentin laughed, breathless, beautiful, into his mouth.

“Careful, I have to go on a boat quest, remember?”

“Not yet.”

Clipped words. Limited information. Just enough to keep Quentin rooted to the spot. Just a little longer.

 

*

*

*

*

*

 

Everyone else was talking about some shit in the corner. Plans about the quest, how they would get in and out of Blackspire, how they would get magic back once and for all. Julia was already gone, her mission new and unknown, but even so, no one seemed to understand what the most important matter of business was.

Quentin was going to let himself get shut up in a literal evil castle with an evil monster and no one seemed concerned.

Meanwhile, Eliot’s skin crawled.

He pulled Quentin away from the group over to the bar where he had mixed probably thousands of drinks. His mouth was dry now, it would be easy to down a couple shots–  but no. He had work to do.

“What are you thinking?” Eliot asked, his right hand still gripping Quentin’s bicep.

Quentin shook it off, gently; he was always so fucking gentle with him.

“I told you. We need to do this the right way. No shortcuts.”

Eliot swallowed. Pursed his lips. Balled his hands into fists at his sides.

“Is this some kind of martyr move?” He said, pacing. “Do you have some kind of death wish now?”

Quentin’s expression shifted slightly. Fuck if Eliot could read it.

“Eliot.”

Forget it, he knew. It was pity.

“Don’t–  this isn’t about me. This is about you.” He stopped walking. “This isn’t your moment. This isn’t how you become a hero.”

“It’s not about having a moment, you know that–”

“Who says I know anything, huh?”

In a detached way, Eliot would probably have found his own behavior funny if he weren’t the one in a frenzy. Quentin’s eyes sparkled, but he didn’t smile.

“I’m being sensible,” Quentin said instead. “We can’t fuck this up.”

“What if I–” Eliot jumped up and down, ants under his skin. “What if we need you?”

“For what? My superior magical talent? Julia is literally a goddess and Alice–”

“We can’t trust Alice.”

Quentin sighed and looked away. He had gotten in the habit of pulling his hair back since their time in the mosaic, showing off the line of his neck and tension that sat there. Just a few months ago Quentin had been his to touch, his skin warm from the Fillorian sun and relaxed from an uncomplicated life.

“Look,” Quentin starts, “We only have so many options. Someone has to stay, and it’s going to be me–”

“What if I…” Eliot’s heart pounds, the words slipping past his lips twenty minutes ahead of his brain and impulse control.

Quentin frowns. “What?”

_What if I tell you the truth? What if I tell you everything you wanted to hear after the Mosaic?_

He swallows.

_What if I’m brave?_

“Nothing,” Eliot says, shaking his head. “Absolutely nothing. Let’s go storm the castle.”

 

*

*

*

*

*

 

Dean Fogg didn’t make them take the forgetting potion in Blackspire.

He took them back to Brakebills, like six overgrown teenagers being escorted back to school after bringing cigarettes on the field trip. He deposited them in the Physical Kids cottage and sat in the living room to supervise them as they poisoned themselves in order to forget everything.

Alice was gone. Quentin didn’t seem to have the energy for that.

They sat against the wall in Quentin’s old room, legs crossed. Quentin had Eliot’s hand between two of his own, playing with his fingers, tracing the lines of his palm. Eliot stayed perfectly still, Quentin’s touch making him want to jump out of his skin but he resisted. He had to make the most of this.

Dean Fogg’s wards crackled around them, letting them stay inside the cottage but not letting them out until they had new faces and new names. He had watched them all down the potion then said they could go be where they wanted, with who they wanted. Eliot had stayed with Margo for a while, petting her hair until she had fallen asleep. Then he had stolen into Quentin’s room, expecting to find Alice, instead finding him very much alone, the blue bottle next to him along with Eliot’s old bottle of tequila–  half empty.

“Do you have regrets?” Eliot asked, spinning the empty blue bottle in his other hand. It had tasted like old white wine. The burn of the tequila had helped, but the taste still lingered.

“Maybe some.” Quentin laced their fingers together, holding Eliot’s hand in his lap. “But I think I’ve done everything I can.”

“You have,” Eliot said quickly. “I don’t think anyone has ever done more.”

Quentin laughed quietly, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I doubt that. You’re just biased.”

Eliot bit his lip. “How so?”

Quentin looked up, giving his hand a squeeze. “You did say I was one of your best friends.”

“You are.” He dragged his teeth along his bottom lip, stalling. “You’re… everything, Q.”

Quentin shook his head, the motion small, but sad. “Not everything.”

Eliot set the blue bottle on the floor beside them, unlacing their fingers to examine Quentin’s hand this time. He turned it over, running his fingers over the knuckles, smooth with youth, if not a little chapped. Once they had been lined and swollen, shaking as they laid yet another tile onto the bed of the mosaic.

Eliot’s mind was fuzzy. They would fall asleep soon, and the potion would take its full affect. They would wake up far away and with different memories, different identities.

And Eliot was still a coward.

He brought Quentin’s hand to his mouth, kissing his knuckles and then pressing it to his heart, holding it there. When he looked, Quentin’s eyes were heavy, but watching him.

“You’re everything, Q.”

 

*

*

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*

*

 

After the monster left his body, Eliot had some adjusting to do.

The monster had left his body near broken and torn, weakened from withdrawal and lack of rest. He walked with a cane someone had found in Marina’s apartment (?) and ate bland and boring food. He needed help getting in out of the shower and sometimes found himself unable to focus his gaze. Through it all, Quentin circled him like a school of fish.

Present, persistent, but not touching.

“Are you ok–  I can–”

“I’m fine, Q. If I can’t pour myself cereal there isn’t much hope.”

“Yeah but–”

“Not buts. You’re not my nurse.”

Quentin backed away, hands up, like he had been caught red-handed.

“Fine, I’ll just–  yeah. I’ll go. I’m sure there’s something I can do–”

Eliot shook some cereal into a bowl. “There is actually.”

Quentin stopped, chin forward, earnest as hell–  like he was actually waiting for some kind of instruction.

It hadn’t been time before. It hadn’t been time when the monster had siphoned off nearly all of Eliot’s life force in the effort it took to leave his body. Not when Eliot had dragged his nearly lifeless carcass up and completed the spell with Quentin that would seal it away in Castle Blackspire forever, their hands clasped and sweaty but their bodies _alive_. It hadn’t even been time when Eliot had been laid up in the Brakebills infirmary, Margo practically taking up healing magic in an effort to protect him from any harm, real or imagined.

Eliot gripped his cane, walking carefully around the counter to meet Quentin face to face.

It was time now. Time to be brave.

“You can say it again, Q,” Eliot said

Quentin squinted, confused. Then his eyes widened. Not confused. Very, very not confused. So smart, his Quentin.

“Eliot.”

“You can say it again, because–” Eliot swallowed, throat thick. “I promise this time it will be different.”

Eliot waited. His time in his happy place had made him feel ethereal, like a ghost stuck in a loop, but this is what it felt like to have your feet solid beneath you, waiting for the man you love to repeat himself.

“I–” Quentin stuttered, clearing his throat. “I think we should give this a try.”

The cane clattered to the floor, Eliot’s arms around Quentin in the next moment and their lips meeting in the next–  Eliot staggered, swayed, but Quentin held on, kissing him and supporting him at the same time. One hand tight around his arm, the other buried in his hair.

“Are you sure?” Quentin breathed against his lips. “Is this really what you want?”

Eliot steadied himself with a hand against Quentin’s shoulder, his heart beating fast. He could feel the place where the centaurs had healed him, the area hard and wooden but familiar. He was warm, and alive, and most of all he was warm and alive _and_ he loved Eliot. Quentin. Q.

Eliot loved him so much. It was time to tell him.

“It’s everything, Q.” He pressed their foreheads together. “Everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed my little drabble! Remember, comments are love, and I love to hear what you think! If you would like to scream about the Magicians with me, feel free to follow me on tumblr at destielpasta.tumblr.com.


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